


Robot Ninja Zombie Pirate

by LLitchi



Category: Slash Report RPF
Genre: F/F, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LLitchi/pseuds/LLitchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re not sexually attracted to each other <i>now</i>. We don’t know once the zombie apocalypse happens.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Robot Ninja Zombie Pirate

**Author's Note:**

> Now, when I actually remembered about Yuletide, I found Yuletide’s lack of Slash Report RPF absolutely appalling. Also, I think MK’s been called Emily but if I’m wrong please correct me.
> 
> Unbeta'd, because I have my principles, and I will not inflict this fic on anyone who has not explicitly signed up for it.

Pru slips off her stilettos, grabs the emergency zombie apocalypse survival kit and checks her phone again. Emily still hasn’t texted her back. Pru would bet that out of all of them, Emily’d be the one zombified first only no one would take her up on it because it’s a sucker’s bet. In the movie, Emily would be the extra in the first scene, reading about the hostile takeover while a zombie ambles up behind her and graphically feasts on her neck, at which point she screams something about never having seen the rival billionaire episode after all. Maybe it would be a Canadian zombie, and it would say “Brains, _please_ ,” thereby giving Emily an extra point three second to run off, and then her chances survival would depend on her athletic prowess, which is to say, her chances of survival would still be non-existent.

“Shut up,” Mere tells Pru, when they meet up at Central Park. “Emily’s not going to be eaten. And if she is, think about the bright side, Pru, and if she _is_ eaten, she would be a robot ninja zombie, which is only an eye patch away from a robot ninja zombie _pirate_ , a.k.a., totally awesome.”

“I don’t know you right now,” Pru says.

“It was supposed to be a joke.”

“And anyway,” Pru checks her phone for the gazzilionth time, “I mean, we always knew that she was going to go first. Even if she was a shining example of a functional human being who could clothe and feed herself on a daily basis, with her face blindness, she would probably still hug a zombie thinking it was me in blonde hair and without makeup on. It’s just that except for her dad’s farm we don’t have anywhere else to wait out the zombie apocalypse in. Has Kate called you yet?” She says all of this extremely fast.

“Yes?” Mere says, inching back. “Hey Pru, are you okay? Do you feel—let’s say, and this is purely random—a slight fever? An uncontrollable urge to bite on human flesh?”

“Keep your forty dollars pants on. I haven’t been bitten.”

“Right,” Mere says, “let’s get a car, then.”

***

The plan is to drive from New York to Toronto, pick up Emily, go to her dad’s farm, wait for Hoyden, Kate, and Gus to show up, have a cup of tea, and wait for all this to blow over.

“I remember a lot of booze and Haagen-Dazs when we made this plan,” Pru frowns. “Turn on the radio. No, wait, I don’t want to find out who died.”

“Don’t diss the plan. We agreed that Simon Pegg and Nick Frost had a working premise. And I’m driving, so I get to choose if we want to hear radio personalities and politicians pee in their pants on air. What are you doing?”

Pru’s phone has only one bar of reception, so the natural thing to do is press it up against the window pane because who knows if Emily—if Pru’s friends and family are trying to reach her. Her dad’s name and an unfortunate photo of him take over the screen. She dismisses the call and texts him, _I’m fine. Please don’t call me again. I’m waiting for an important one_.

Which is when Mere looks over her shoulder, “Is that Emily? Oh no, _Pru_ , was that your dad? What are you doing?”

Both of them know what Pru is doing. What she’s doing, is ridiculousness. She throws the phone at the dashboard in disgust and then immediately catches it and presses it against the window again. In her defense, Emily requires a keeper, and—

Pru’s iPhone starts vibrating aggressively—unknown number, Toronto, CA—and she snatches it up. “Hello?”

“Hey Pru!” Emily says, her words coming through in huffs of statics. Pru wants Emily here so she can strangle her herself. “I broke my phone bashing it in someone’s head, but _his_ phone turned out to be passcode locked, so I had to keep killing zombies until I find one that _doesn’t_ have their phone locked so I could call you. And then someone just let me borrow their phone.”

“ _Em_ ,” Pru claws at her own face, “get inside your apartment right now.”

“Hi Em,” Mere says loudly. “Did you just say you killed a bunch of zombies and risked your life just to call Pru? Did you even call your family? Your brother? Your sister in law? Hmm, I wonder what that mean—“

“Go back to your apartment,” Pru bats away Mere’s phone snatching attempts. “Don’t go outside, not even to get grocery. Close all of your doors and windows and turn off all the lights. When we’re there Merelyn’ll bake you a chocolate pecan pie, okay?”

“ _Pruuu_ —“

“I swear to God, Em, if you don’t go home right now, close all your fucking doors and check in with me every two hours, I’ll write the diabetes abortion fic and make Mere read it to you.”

There’s a short silence in which Pru contemplates what she’s just said. Merelyn looks an unholy combination of scandalized and gleeful, which bodes extremely horribly. Emily’s tiny, high-pitched squeak, however, bodes even worse.

Mere says, careful, “You just sounded really—“

“ _Possessive_ ,” Emily sighs extravagantly. “I’m so turned on right now.”

Pru reaches into her emergency zombie apocalypse survival kit and produces a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. She briefly entertains the possibility of ditching these assholes and go find her parents instead, after all, but if she’s going to be in an enclosed space with a heavy firearms, it’s going have to be with a bunch people she’s less likely to murder. Besides, she’s had a tacit agreement with all of these bitches to bring the porn, the fics, and the Harlequin, and all of them are going to _share_. Em probably has some knotting ones, no matter how Pru begs, and no matter how many yiffing jokes are going to be leveled at her. Both Em and Hoyden are bringing the teapot kitten fic, just to be on the safe side, and Pru’s bringing all of the Meeting the Minister ‘verse. She thinks she remembers downloading Swan!Lock but she can’t be sure.

“No,” Mere takes the bottle away determinedly. “You’re going to have to pitch in with the driving sooner or later.”

Traffic is normal, sans a few zombies straggling after the cars and pawing mindlessly at the steel.

***

“Hello, gentle listeners—“

“Hi, bitches!”

“This is Slash Report episode who-the-fuck-knows, I’m MK, joined as ever by—“

“Rageprufrock—“

“With some special guests who are not so special anymore because they’re here every day. Say hi to everyone, Hoyden.”

“There’s no one listening. What is this everyone you keep speaking of? But hi.”

“Twentysomething—“

“Hi. I’m sure it’s useful for all five of our listeners to differentiate between slightly different female voices.”

“Okay, if you bitches are not going to be nice I’m not introducing you by name anymore. Anyway, Merelyn and Lepagus are also with us. One of them is drunk on booze and the other is high on sugar. I’ll let you guys guess which is which.”

“It’s our end-of month show and you know what that means. At the end of every month Slash Report reads a fanfic—“

“With voice performances!”

“With voice performances just like your liberal arts college English class with a bunch of overexcited theater majors—“

“Ahem.”

“Sorry. We’re going to read a fanfic chosen by one of our esteemed panelists, in case you guys didn’t think ahead like us and bring a shit load of terrible Kirk/Spock Pon farr. This month, it’s MK’s pick. Em?”

“ _Finally_ —“

“We’re very, very scared, for the record.”

“Please let it be Veela!Danny.”

“Please, please let it not be the ‘John and Sherlock are cats’ one I wrote for you.”

“No? It’s gyzym’s _Ready, Fire, Aim_. If we forced you to read yours, you might actually expire of mortification and I still need you for a lot of sex-related reasons.”

“Oh God.”

“That was your lesbian fantasy porn for the day. You’re welcome.”

“We keep receiving pigeon carrier requests for you guys to bang each other on air. They all want to know if Pru slips into Mandarin when she’s…close. On the one hand, it’ll drastically improve our ratings, and you guys _are_ already banging. On the other…no, I can’t think of a downside to this. How much do you imagine amateur pornography is going to fetch, these days?”

“You’re a horrible, horrible—“

“Guys, you realize this is a great idea for a fic.”

**Author's Note:**

> This might _look_ like a tribute to the podcast, but it’s really revenge for getting me into fucking Teen Wolf and SGA.


End file.
